Me.

A poem about facing your inner self how that can be as scary as hell.

I place my hand on her hand,

its touch as cold as ice.

She smiles wickedly at me,

as if knowing something not exactly nice.

She mimicks my movements exactly,

and shows me images from my own personal hell.

Because she's like me,

and knows that all is not well.

She gets me like no one else,

but scares me just the same.

She has a look of terror,

while I hide one of shame.

She gets me to well sometimes,

with our same brown eyes.

I don't know why or when,

but she'll be my own demise.

She terrifys me,

she scares me,

she is me.

 

 

The End

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